Until Tomorrow
by RafeDurk
Summary: Darcy arrives in Meryton a month late because Georgiana requires his company in town. As a result Elizabeth and Darcy meet not at the assembly but under entirley different circumstances. One-shot.


A short written for Meet Cute 2 at AHA. This story was inspired by an off the cuff comment in a chatroom. Thanks to Maria for the title, and to Lisa for helpfully pointing out my typos. All mistakes are mine**.**

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**UNTIL TOMORROW**

Blast Bingley and his blots, Darcy thought uncharitably. If Bingley took half a care with his correspondence, he would have been approaching Netherfield at this very moment, not sitting in the carriage waiting for his driver to obtain directions from the innkeeper. Even when traveling in perfect weather, an unmoving carriage will soon become stuffy, and Darcy was doing his best to remain unperturbed in the face of his growing discomfort.

He had been supposed to travel to Hertfordshire over a month ago along with Bingley, Miss Bingley, and the Hursts, but he had put it off at the last minute. Georgiana, still reeling from the implications of her near elopement, had needed him, and so he had remained until Georgiana assured him that he was no longer needed and insisted he fulfill his promise to assist Bingley on his new estate.

Darcy had written to Bingley directly informing his friend of his intentions and requesting directions. In his excitement—Darcy charitably assumed it was excitement rather than just plain carelessness—Bingley had managed to blot the page badly enough to obscure the final direction, which road to take after reaching Meryton. And so they had reached Meryton and been forced to stop at the inn. While his coachman asked for directions, Darcy sat in his carriage growing warmer by the minute and uncomfortably aware of all the attention his carriage was garnering from the townspeople.

To be nothing more than an object of speculation and gossip was abhorrent, and he abruptly pulled the shade on one side of the carriage to block the view of those bold enough to attempt a glimpse inside.

Darcy stared absently out the other window for a few moments before his brain registered what he was seeing. Wickham was in Meryton! The cad was standing next to a militia officer and a clergyman and talking to several young ladies. At Ramsgate, Darcy had not confronted the scoundrel in person; he had written to Wickham, who had fled like the coward he was. If they had met, they would both now be dead: Wickham by Darcy's own hand, and Darcy by hanging for murder. Time supposedly heals all wounds, but as this was the first time he had seen Wickham since foiling the elopement, Darcy might be forgiven for the anger that surged through him.

Thankfully, Darcy's driver returned at that point, and they were soon on their way. If Wickham noticed the Darcy crest on the carriage as it passed, he gave no outward sign of it. Most of the rest of the ride to Netherfield was occupied in determining what was to be done. Several options were considered and discarded in quick succession. Rapidly Darcy came to the conclusion that there was nothing that could be done. There was no reason to suppose that they would meet often, even in this small neighborhood. After a few hints Bingley would respect Darcy's declaration that Wickham was not fit company for himself or his unmarried sister, and Darcy would simply avoid any party that was likely to involve the officers.

Only briefly did the idea of exposing Wickham cross his mind, but it was impossible. It was not his responsibility to follow Wickham around exposing his character to the world. Neither was he to blame for anyone incautious enough to be taken in by plausible manners and a handsome face. The affront to his own dignity—he would not expose his private concerns to the people gossiping on the street—and the potential danger to Georgiana's reputation were insupportable.

Resolved not to lose his temper should they meet, while at the same time doing everything in his power to avoid socializing with the cretin, Darcy settled back into his seat for the rest of the ride.

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Despite his best intentions, Darcy did not sleep well his first night at Netherfield, and not just because he rarely slept well in unfamiliar surroundings. No, his brain was full of Wickham and the damage that could be done to a small market town. Perhaps he could slip a word to the local tradesmen, or have Bingley do it for him, since Bingley's residence, short though it was, would be more grounds for credibility than Darcy had as a new arrival. Hints of debts left behind would likely put them on guard enough to at least be cautious in how much credit they extended without requiring too much in the way of proof.

A night spent unable to sleep thanks to the perturbation of his mind, led to him being both tired and in need of exercise. Fortunately, Bingley was a habitually late riser, and Miss Bingley and the Hursts kept town hours no matter where they resided, so Darcy was able to order his horse saddled and ride out on the estate without having to waste time in meaningless conversation that would have tried what little patience he had left this morning.

Twenty minutes and a punishing gallop later, Darcy dismounted in a small coppice by a stream and allowed his horse to drink before looping the reins over a convenient branch. The ride had been just what he needed, and for the first time since spotting Wickham, he felt completely at ease.

"You are grossly mistaken!"

A woman's voice in stern tones startled Darcy out of his unintentional doze, but he was not overly concerned until he recognized the voice that answered.

"Do not let propriety stand in the way of your desires, my dear," the smooth voice of a practiced seducer, of Wickham, answered.

Darcy was on his feet in an instant and strode in the direction of the sound. He was just in time to see the young woman attempt to slap Wickham, only to have her delicate wrist caught in his grip. Darcy was not quick enough to prevent what happened next. While Wickham was still bowed over the woman's captive right hand, her left balled into a fist and swung unerringly at Wickham's face. There was a dull thud and a crack upon impact, and Wickham released her hand, staggering back before falling to the ground, holding a hand to his nose.

"I think not," Darcy said, when Wickham made to stand. Taking in the other man's uniform, he added, "Do you not have duties to attend somewhere, Wickham?"

"Darcy," Wickham said with a sneer, touching his hat. "This is no business of yours."

"The lady clearly does not desire your presence. It is the business of any [i]_gentleman[/i]_," he emphasized the word, "to see that you remove yourself post haste. Begone, and be thankful that you have only met with her fist, and not mine as well, for I am unlikely to stop at a single blow."

Cowed, Wickham retreated, slinking off in the direction of the road. Darcy watched until he was out of sight, then turned his attention to the woman who was still standing behind him. She met his gaze frankly, taking his measure even as he returned the favor.

She was about Georgiana's height, maybe an inch or two shorter, with similarly dark, curly hair. Her fair skin was somewhat more tan than would be considered fashionable, but it suited her, as did the flush of exertion that remained in her cheeks. The gown and pelisse she wore marked her as the daughter of a gentleman, although not one of extraordinary means, but she had no companion. It was dangerous for a young woman to walk alone, as she had just discovered. Her figure was light and pleasing, but it was her eyes that arrested him. They captured him in their fierce gaze, challenging him, assessing him, and refusing to cede any ground.

Beauty enough to tempt any man. Wit sufficient to see through Wickham's pretensions. Resourcefulness to strike back. And courage to face down a stranger after what she had just experienced.

This woman was a treasure the likes of which he had never seen before.

He bowed deeply, "Fitzwilliam Darcy, at your service. Are you well?"

She curtsied gracefully in reply but was unable to conceal a slight grimace as she rose. "Elizabeth Bennet. I must thank you for your timely assistance, sir. How came you to be here?"

"I am visiting my friend Mr. Bingley at Netherfield. But you are injured." He took a step forward desirous of assisting but uncertain how to do so.

"'Tis nothing. Only Mr. Wickham's head is significantly harder than the pillows I am used to hitting," she held up her hand, and Darcy was not slow to accept the invitation, reaching out to examine it.

Her hand was so small in his, and his opinion of her grew when he contemplated how such a dainty object could have felled Wickham with a single blow. Gently as possible, he flexed her fingers, looking for injuries. Hoping that he might distract her from the pain, he added, "And what did the pillows do to offend you so grievously, so that I might avoid such a fate?"

Her laugh was full throated, not the polite titter of society ladies, and Darcy felt himself sink deeper into enchantment. A light touch on her knuckle drew a hiss of indrawn breath. "Forgive me. You should have this tended by a physician, it might be broken."

Miss Bennet flexed her fingers and winced. "I fear you are correct, sir."

"May I escort you home?" She started to demur, but he persevered, "I believe Mr. Wickham will have left the area, but I would feel more at ease if I saw you safely home."

The sense of this won her agreement. Darcy retrieved his mount and offered Miss Bennet his arm, which she accepted after a slight hesitation.

Darcy now found himself in a situation he had never before experienced. He wished to make conversation with Miss Bennet but was at quite a loss for what to say. To talk about the weather seemed too mundane, and he would not be so indelicate as to inquire as to how she came to be walking with Mr. Wickham. How could he know what topics might be of interest since he knew so little of her.

"Do you often walk in the mornings," he asked, then mentally kicked himself. That question would probably draw her mind back to Wickham, and he did not want that.

Thankfully, she was gracious enough to ignore his ineptitude and instead talked about her love of nature and the sights to be found in the neighborhood. Conversation flowed well from there, including comparisons by Darcy of Hertfordshire and Derbyshire, and books they had both read.

All too soon, they reached the gate to Longbourn.

"It would probably be best if we parted here, Mr. Darcy. I fear the rest of my family will not be prepared for callers at this hour."

"Of course. I would not wish to impose. May I call on you tomorrow? I am sure your father will have questions, and I should like to be assured of your wellbeing."

Miss Bennet blushed. "That is very kind of you, Mr. Darcy, but it is not necessary. The pain is already subsiding."

"You force me to be bold, Miss Bennet. Very well. I ask not because you are injured but because it is my desire to do so; Miss Bennet, may I call on you?"

"Why? You hardly know me" Her forehead crinkled adorably in confusion and Darcy smiled. What other woman would have asked that question? The cut of his clothing, or the quality of his horse would have been enough to ensure most women in Miss Bennet's situation would accept his attentions. She was no fortune hunter; that was clear.

"Because, Miss Bennet, while it is true that I do not know much of you, I do know you have done something that I have only dreamed of doing. Any woman with the temerity to punch Mr. Wickham is a woman whom I should like to know better."

She blushed furiously at that, the color only deepening when Darcy carefully took her injured hand and raised it to his lips for the lightest of kisses on her sore knuckles. Slowly, he straightened, waiting for her reply.

For a moment, when she withdrew her hand from his and dropped a curtsey, he believed his hopes would be dashed.

"Until tomorrow, Mr. Darcy," she said quietly, a shy, beguiling smile gracing her lips.

"Until tomorrow," his voice, barely more than a whisper as she walked away, echoed her words. Then, a broad smile conquered his normally serious mien. She had consented! "Until tomorrow."

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My fingers are bruised and broken from slaving over a keyboard all day. Leave a review to give them a kiss. Easy on the punched noses, please.


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